


i get a little bit genghis khan

by ceserabeau



Series: the wilderness [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Clubbing, Derek literally doesn't talk, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: Stiles is normally all limbs, two left feet, but out there, under the bright lights, caught between the bodies, he’s another creature entirely. Derek wants to put his mouth to the hollow of his throat, lap at the sweat glistening there, slide his palms over the cut of Stiles’ hips and pull him in close, feel the energy moving through him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title/soundtrack from [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjOUdjN8QSc).

Stiles is drunk by the time Derek gets there. He finds him with the rest of the pack, all of them curled together in one of the booths at the back of Jungle. Even with the lights flashing over them, he can see how they’re all leaning into each other, smiling brightly. There’s a sweet sensation in his chest: a burst of gratitude for seeing his pack safe and happy.

The second he slides into the booth, Stiles is in his lap, one arm sliding around his shoulders. Derek can smell the alcohol in his sweat, the sharp bite of tequila at the corner of his mouth. He leans in to lick in away

Stiles grins, sloppy at the edges. “Missed you,” he mumbles, and bites Derek’s lip. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

Across the table, Lydia makes a noise like she’s rolling her eyes. “Stiles, _seriously_. Give him a minute to breath.”

Stiles pouts, but Derek can see the glint in his eyes, something sharp and mischievous. “Fine,” he says, and grabs the girls by the hand. “You can have five minutes – then I’m coming back for you.”

Derek watches as he pulls them towards the dancefloor and into the press of people. He wants to take the beer Scott slides towards him or talk Isaac, but Stiles is a beacon, drawing him in, and he can’t look away,

The crowd is a living thing, constantly in motion, bodies churning together to the beat. Stiles is sandwiched between Lydia and Malia, head thrown back, eyes closed, like he’s high on the feeling of the bass beneath his feet. He’s normally all limbs, two left feet, but out there, under the bright lights, caught between the bodies, he’s another creature entirely. Derek wants to put his mouth to the hollow of his throat, lap at the sweat glistening there, slide his palms over the cut of Stiles’ hips and pull him in close, feel the energy moving through him.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Isaac huffs. “Go and dance already. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

Derek blushes. He knows he should feel embarrassed – he’s twenty fucking six and Stiles makes him horny like a goddamn teenager - but he can’t care, not when Stiles is looking at him, eyes bright and amused.

He laughs when Derek gets to him. “I was wondering how long it’d take,” he says, and shoves at Malia until she moves out the way.

There’s hardly room to move, to breathe, too many people crushed together, so Derek slots his chest to Stiles’ back and slides his hands over Stiles’ hips, pulling him in tight. He doesn’t do this often, only when Stiles drags him onto the dancefloor, but it’s like riding a bike: the easy push-pull of the crowd, the music vibrating through him like electricity.

Stiles’ head falls back against his shoulder as they grind together. He’s so beautiful up close: eyes wide and dark, face flushed, cheekbones like razors. There’s sweat sliding along his brow, in the dips of his temples, glistening in the flash of the bar lights. Derek can’t look away.

He presses his nose behind Stiles’ ear and inhales: sweat, shampoo, and beneath that, Stiles’ own scent, his sugar sweet arousal. When he puts his mouth against the skin to taste it, it bursts over his tongue like ripe fruit. Stiles’ breath punches out of him in a gasp.

“Outside,” he says, voice so low Derek can barely hear it. “Right now.”

He can’t even care about the looks the pack’s giving them, just lets Stiles pull him towards the back door, drag him outside into the alley. He crowds Stiles against the wall, shoving forward until he can push their hips together and feel Stiles’ erection against his own.

“Come on,” Stiles groans, and his hands coming up to curl over Derek’s shoulders. “Touch me already. Don’t be such a tease.”

Derek huffs a laugh against Stiles’ temple as he flicks the button of Stiles’ jeans open; he always gets more demanding when he’s drunk, all his inhibitions stripped away. Stiles bucks at the first touch of Derek’s hand, rolling his hips up, but Derek keeps him pinned, trapped between the brick and his body. He knows just how twist his wrist to make Stiles’ hips jerk, to make his voice crack on a moan.

“Missed you so much,” Stiles pants against his cheek. “You weren’t there when I woke up. Wanted you to fuck me before you went to work. Wanted to feel you all day.”

Derek growls against his mouth. This is what Stiles does to him: brings the wolf closer to the surface, makes him reckless, ravenous. He wants him all the time; in his bed, in his car, in an alley next to a dumpster, the bass pounding through the wall, sliding along his bones like electricity.

“I got myself ready,” Stiles says, and Derek can picture it: Stiles laid out on his bed, chest flushed, hand over his mouth to muffle his whines as he fingers himself. “It wasn’t – wasn’t as good as when you do it, wasn’t enough. Your fingers are –  oh, _fuck_ , your fingers, I want, please –”

What did Derek ever do to deserve this boy? He shoves Stiles’ jeans down so he can get a hand on his ass, down between his cheeks to where Stiles is slick with lube, and sink two fingers in, too desperate to be careful. Stiles keens, high and desperate. When Derek scissors his fingers, he fists a hand in Derek’s shirt.

“Come on,” he grits out. “No more, I want – do it, c’mon, Derek, _fuck me_.”

There’s nothing left in Derek’s mind but getting inside him Stiles, sinking into his tight heat. He shoves frantically at Stiles’ jeans until he can get them down and off, hanging from one ankle; thumbs his own open, pushes them over his hips, then gets his hands under Stiles thighs and lifts him up.

Stiles is drunk enough that he’s relaxed, pliant, body barely resisting as Derek pulls him down onto his dick. He just tips his head back against the wall and groans, long and loud. He looks like he’s high, eyes so wide and dark, all pupil, his skin burning hot to the touch, slick with sweat. He’s finally stopped talking, gone quiet, beyond words, beyond noise.

Derek can’t do much more than rut against him, circling his hips in a steady grin. He knows the moment he hits Stiles’ prostate: his body arches up, mouth dropping open. Derek keeps going, aiming for it over and over, until Stiles writhing is beneath him.

Derek can tell he’s close, knows the signs so intimately: Stiles’ muscles tightening, hands clenching and unclenching on Derek’s shoulders, whole body shuddering and shaking as he spills over his shirt. Derek’s not far behind him, can feel it vibrating through him, right down to his bone: he bites a mark into Stiles’ skin so he doesn’t howl.

When he comes back to himself, he’s slumped over and Stiles is mouthing lazily at his jaw. He can smell them both: sweat and come, their scents mixed together. It feels right, the way it always does, settling his wolf inside him.

Distantly, he remembers the others inside, probably rolling their eyes, laughing at them. “We should go back,” he says.

“Nah,” Stiles replies. He licks a hot line up Derek’s neck. “They’ll be impossible. And my ass is so _full_. How about you just take me home and eat all your come out of me?”

Derek doesn’t have it in him to say no.

 


End file.
